


Alone in the Dark

by wordswehavesaid



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Barry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswehavesaid/pseuds/wordswehavesaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“See, you're not afraid of the dark, Barry.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You're afraid of being alone in the dark.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> So after this last week's episode...I couldn't resist. So I decided to do an AU of "The Scientist" where Barry is introduced. Don't know if I'll keep going with this, either with "Three Ghosts" or his past, but I hope you enjoy it!

He honestly wishes he could’ve asked for days off for this, but it’s not like he can predict where and when the next unexplainable case will pop up. So Barry Allen calls off sick from work and books the next train to Starling City. Which he misses, so the one after will have to do.

He’s content to stand on the platform and wait like everybody else, even brought a book along for just such an occasion, but then there’s a hand gripping his shoulder and he has to avoid giving a start.

“Honey, are you alright?” It’s an unfamiliar voice pitched somewhere between curious and concerned, which is a tone he’s gotten rather used to hearing from otherwise perfect strangers. But people always seem to feel a need to approach him in this way. He’d like to say it’s due to a magnetic personality or good looks.

Instead, he shuffles his feet while turning towards the voice, aims a polite smile, and switches the white cane he carries from one hand to the other. “I’m fine, thanks. Just waiting for the train.”

“Well would you like to sit down? There’s room on the bench,” the woman continues—and it is a woman, like most times really—and he can tell by the way the sound’s directed away she’s not looking at him anymore. Then there’s the shuffling of someone else’s feet some distance away at the bench, and he imagines someone, perhaps a friend or sibling or child, has just hurriedly abandoned their seat.

“It’s really ok,” he tries to insist still. “I’m fine waiting here.” But he’s already being guided and at some point he’s learned it’s just more awkward if he digs his heels in on this relatively small battle. And a small part of him doesn’t mind the seat considering he’s going to be waiting here for the next two hours or so.

Barry looks back up to where today’s Good Samaritan is hopefully still standing. “Thank you.”

“It was no problem. You’re sure you don’t need any more help?”

“No. I mean, as long as this is the next train to Starling City, I’m good,” he replies, hoping she’ll at last take the hint.

“It is,” she tells him, clearly thinking it very helpful. “Well, you have a safe trip.”

“You too,” he replies, relieved when he starts to hear those footsteps recede. Probably not very far though, since they’re all waiting for the same train. At least he can hear other conversations start again up around him now that this little incident of entertainment has passed.

He’s used to it, though. After all, he’s been a spectacle since he was eleven years old and blinded.

Conversations almost always slow or stop when he enters a room, people either give him a wide berth or take it upon themselves to come up to him like just now, as if he can’t just get along on his own like the rest of the world.

He can use public transit on his own. Sure, Joe will nearly have a heart attack if he finds out about this little side-trip, but he’d react the same way if Iris suddenly skipped town to go chasing down the impossible. At least he knows the detective’s concern is genuine.

Everything about Joe is genuine, from his hugs to his commitment to the force to the way he steadfastly refuses to talk with Barry about _how_ he was blinded. Because they don’t agree.

And that’s what has Barry sitting on a train platform ready to go to Starling City of all places. Not that Starling City doesn’t have other enticements. It has the Vigilante, after all. But he’s on his way there for a case, one with very promising evidence for a theory that most people might find impossible. And if he can prove it true, then that might be enough to convince people that all three members of the Allen family were wronged that night; his mother, murdered; him, blinded; and his father, imprisoned for crimes he would have _never_ committed.

Barry’s the only one who can see that, though. Him, the blind kid. Which, fine, he’ll just make it clear to everyone else with other evidence, since they’ve never accepted his so-called eyewitness testimony. His lack of sight’s never stopped him on the job before. He can’t let it.

Resolve firmly in place he fishes his tablet out of his satchel—the accessible tech made available to him by a grant the Captain had sprung for that he really hasn’t ever stopped thanking him for—and starts searching for any new information on the Queen Consolidated break-in. He’ll be prepared even if he’s late.

\---

As if the morning wasn’t already going badly enough what with his mother’s less than smooth reintroduction to the company, Oliver Queen reflects, there’s also been a break-in at said company and frustratingly as usual the police seem clueless. The only plus side to this is that he’s inadvertently being given nearly full access to the investigation, which will make his work as the Arrow for however long this unusual case takes to solve much easier.

Of course, it wouldn’t be his life if there wasn’t a curveball or two thrown in.

“Actually, it was only one guy.” There’s a young man standing at the other end of the room, dressed in a neat little checkered shirt and sweater with some kind of case on wheels rolling behind him and completely unfamiliar. That doesn’t stop him from continuing to chatter about missed trains and traffic as he makes his way over.

Of course, Lance is instantly on his guard demanding, “Who the hell are you?”

Oliver’s tempted to follow that up with a question of his own, make it clear just how little this newcomer belongs here—but the words die in his throat when he really registers the sunglasses covering the stranger’s eyes and the white cane that he’s using to navigate the space.

“I’m Barry Allen,” the young man hastens to supply, fishing in a pocket for something. “I’m from the Central City police department. I’m with the crime scene investigation unit.”

“You’re not serious?” Lance says, looking Allen up and down in an incredulous manner that would likely offend—if the man could see it.

Oliver can, however, and his jaw clenches before he interjects, “What Officer Lance means to ask, I’m sure, is what this break-in has to do with the Central City police department?”

Lance blanches and looks to him with, well, not exactly gratitude but something resembling it. But Oliver’s more focused on the way the newcomer swivels on the heels of his shoes unerringly in his direction, something like surprise in the features that he can see. “Mr. Queen, uh, I hadn’t realized—” His free hand is offered to Oliver and he shakes it. The younger man’s grip is a little firmer than he expects, and his hand seems to slide against his own instead of simply letting go when he releases it. He notices the same thing when Lance takes his turn.

“I mean, this is your facility, obviously, but uh, I was sent due to a case with similar unexplained elements to this one in Central. So when the report came over the wire, my captain sent me up here.” The newcomer finishes his tale with a little nod and then waits expectantly.

Lance doesn’t disappoint, taking back over in order to question the CSI’s crazy sounding theory—crazy, that is, if Oliver wasn’t getting a strange creeping sense of deja vu with every word the scientist speaks, calmly proving his theory with hard-to-ignore evidence.

It doesn’t help that the blind man somehow seems to be confusing him with the former detective. Or at least, that’s what Oliver has to assume with a grimace, as it’s him that the Central City native directs most of it to. He does his best to stick nearby Lance to make it less obvious, honestly unsure how else to proceed here.

It gets even more interesting when Allen posits he knows exactly what, out of the entire inventory, was stolen: a centrifuge. “Probably the Cord Enterprises 2BX 900. Maybe the six series. Both have a three column base. The evidence of which should be, uh, here in the facility.” He gestures with the cane vaguely.

“Your seven o’clock.” Oliver is the first to find his voice at the disheartening sight. “About twenty paces.”

The man looks surprised—at least from what he can see, and it’s rude to think he wishes the other man weren’t wearing those huge sunglasses obscuring most of his face. But a bright smile breaks out over the portion he can see along with a quick, “Thanks.” Then he’s heading over, Oliver falling into step beside him as quick as he can. The last thing he needs is somebody tripping and cracking their head open. Isabel would be screaming about the lawsuit waiting to happen.

“Ok, right, so see there’s three sets of broken bolts here where the thief just ripped it out of the ground,” Allen’s saying.

“And what exactly is a centrifuge?” Lance questions.

But it’s Felicity who jumps in with the explanation, the newcomer filling in the end of her sentence with a pleased, well, look in her direction.

Felicity’s mirroring it, even as she asks, “What did you say your name was again?”

“Barry. Allen.”

“Felicity. Smoak.”

Oliver clears his throat, about the only cue he can give the CSI without actually touching him, and the man starts, turning his head first to him and then back down at the ground. “Um, I also read there were some cracks found in the floor. They should start around…here,” he’s crouched down and felt with his hand, then points towards the exit, “and head to the door. Footsteps. One guy.”

Lance is dismissive and Allen straightens back up to address him which leaves Oliver the space to crouch down and examine the ripped bolts and cracked floor for himself. He can’t deny, it’s exactly like Allen’s described. Everything is. How can a blind CSI straight off the train from another city have his act more together than the Starling police, more together than his team? He almost knows _too_ much.

There’s something not right about this. Even if Central City has a similar case and wants to help out, he can’t imagine they’d send up a blind man, at least not alone. Even if he’s their best and brightest. Call him cynical, but Oliver knows that’s just not the way the world works.

And whether the man is unfortunately disabled or not, Oliver needs to know just what Barry Allen thinks he’s doing in his city. To that end he feels no guilt having Diggle look into the matter.

\---

Barry Allen is unexpected. Not that there’s much in Felicity’s life anymore that’s expected—but he’s unexpectedly good. Good and surprising and _fascinating_. She has to keep a tight lid on all the questions she has, but it’s just amazing to see such a smart, accomplished person who so happens to be blind. Not heartening that he’s blind, just that…he doesn’t seem to let it bother him, carrying on with his investigating and making quips about plastic baggies that only she laughs at.

Felicity’s happy to show him into a lab at the company and get settled in to work—because this is also a fantastic excuse to get out from behind her personal assistant desk, thank you very much.

She just wishes that Barry didn’t seem as fascinated by the Arrow as she is by him.

He’s read about her rescue from the Count apparently, and it’s the first thing he asks about. “What was he like?”

“Green,” she says dismissively, unthinking. Then blanches. “Oh wow, that was probably really rude, I’m so sorry—”

“No, no, that’s ok,” Barry reassures her, barely seeming to notice the unintentional slight. “Green is interesting. I mean, why green? Black would be better for urban camouflage and stealth.” He’s got a theory for that, lots of theories on the Vigilante, and it’s a little unnerving how accurate they are.

“Why are you so interested in the Vigilante?” She finally asks, hoping to make clear that she doesn’t really want to keep going with this topic.

Barry stills, mouth dropping into something of a melancholy frown. “When I was eleven, my mom was murdered.”

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps, appalled at the thought that somehow something _else_ has gone horribly wrong in this man’s life aside from the obvious.

“They never caught the guy who did it. Maybe he would have.”

Barry nearly helps them catch their thief, but Oliver isn’t able to stop him with his arrows. The huge bruise that blooms across his chest makes her a little nervous as to whether it’s such a good idea for him to keep trying. But a blood sample is good, she’s confident the forensic scientist will be able to isolate the sedative in it that Oliver says is a component to this super-soldier serum that she cannot believe he had to deal with on a so-called abandoned island of all places.

But back in the lab—after hurriedly persuading Barry with her heart in her throat to let someone else reorganize the chemicals if they’re really stacked so dangerously—she’s barely able to start with some lame story about how she got one of the Vigilante’s arrows before the scientist sighs.

“Felicity, when I said I thought the Vigilante had partners…I know you and Lance are in with him,” the man admits. “I heard him ask you about your ‘special friend’ at the crime scene.”

“Oh my God, you have super-enhanced hearing!” She blurts in horror before she can stop herself.

His face scrunches up, though he’s laughing as he shakes his head. “That’s just a myth. I mean, I’ve trained myself to _rely_ on my hearing more than most people, but you guys were standing like five feet away from me. It wasn’t hard.”

“And you’re ok with that?” She checks when it’s clear he’s more amused than anything.

Barry practically lights up. “For real? It’s amazing! I mean I could ask you so much—but, uh, maybe not here. Cause, well, does Oliver know?”

“What?” She looks at him sharply and thinks it might just be too much if he tells her he has a new theory on the Vigilante’s identity.

But instead he shifts on his feet, a little uncomfortable. “It’s just, you guys seem kind of…close.”

Oh. Felicity feels a sweeping relief at that, and even manages a short laugh. “Oh no. He and I are not, no, I do not like Oliver.” Something like relief flickers across his face now as well, and it makes her think.

She likes Barry. It’s pretty clear that he likes her, too. So why shouldn’t she?

Felicity reaches out and touches his arm lightly, just above the elbow. Which she’d maybe researched last night was the right approach. “Um, I was invited to a work function. It's a party. And I have a plus-one. I was thinking you would make a really good plus one.”

Barry seems stunned for a minute before the slightest smile curves his lips. Just as quickly, however, it falters. “There's not going to be dancing, is there? I'm just not too good on my feet.”

She squeezes his arm. “There is only dancing if you want there to be.”

It’s looking to be one of the best days she’s had in a while. They’re well on their way to tracking their unusually strong thief and she has a date tonight. Of course it can’t last. But she’s stunned when it’s someone she considers a friend who ruins it all.

Oliver storms in while they’re waiting for the test to finish and watching a news story on the particle accelerator launch, practically backing Barry into the table behind him with the ferocity of his accusations. He’s not here for a similar case, the police did catch somebody for his mother’s murder, his father did it.

She wants to intercede, tell Oliver to stop, because she can’t believe he’d do this to someone like Barry. But the scientist doesn’t deny that he came here on false pretenses. He does dispute the last claim with an equal intensity, one of the few people she’s seen not quail under the onslaught of Oliver, whose glower she realizes with something of a wince is probably singularly ineffective here. He tells them what should be a fantastical story about a Blur that entered the Allen house that night and committed the crime.

“Somewhere inside the Blur, I saw a person. It was the last thing I ever saw,” he reveals in a voice that’s almost raw. Then he snatches the sunglasses off his face.

Felicity gasps and looks away, but that doesn’t erase the glimpse of terrible scars she gets. She ought to be used it, having seen Oliver shirtless plenty of times, after all. But those scars— _slash marks_ —across his young face…it’s horrific. In her peripheral she sees Oliver standing firm, staring the man straight in his damaged eyes, refusing to back down of course. But there’s something haunted in his gaze.

“They said my dad did it to keep me from seeing the crime. So I didn’t have to watch him kill my mom,” Barry continues, voice practically shaking. “That I was just covering for him. Why would I? What I saw, what _happened_ to me that night, was real. As real as the man that ripped down that metal door with his bare hands. That's why I look into cases like this. The ones nobody believes are possible. Maybe if I can just make sense of one, I might be able to find out who really killed my mother. Who did this,” he says, sliding the sunglasses back in place. “And free my dad. I am sorry I lied to you.” It’s soft and definitely guilt-ridden, and he makes sure to turn his head, including both of them. Then he takes up the cane that’s been leaning against the table. “Better find another plus one.”

She doesn’t really know what to think anymore. Barry’s been lying, as Oliver says to her. Like it’s an excuse for that unnecessarily harsh treatment she just witnessed. What did any of Barry’s so, _so_ painful secrets have to do with them?

She looks her friend in the eye and asks him point-blank, “And what do we do every day?” Then walks straight out of the office, knowing she’s going to need more than a minute to herself to be able to attend this now wretched party.

\---

The last thing Barry expects as he’s packing up in his hotel room that afternoon—specially made up on the first floor, the receptionist had told him brightly, probably thinking like all the rest it was kind and helpful, because being blind suddenly means stairs or an elevator are too difficult or something—is a phone call.

“Unknown number,” his phone says in a cool, feminine tone, designed to be inoffensive. That doesn’t stop him from wanting to throw it at the wall in frustration and shame every time one of the guys at the station sends a text and he has to stand there _listening_ to it in a room full of people. It’s always when he’s somewhere public, either in the bullpen or standing in the line at Jitters. He wants to believe that’s not on purpose.

In the present, however, he takes the call. “Hello?”

“Barry, this is Oliver Queen,” he’s told unnecessarily. He’d recognize that voice anywhere now—carefully controlled with an edge of authority occasionally slipping through—and he nearly drops the phone.

“Mr. Queen!” He’s not sure if it comes across as respectful or just intimidated. After the way they parted this afternoon, he feels a little of both, with an extra side of frustration to just create a wonderful jumble inside. “Um, listen, I really am sorry about lying. I really wouldn’t have if this case—but that’s probably not why you called. Uh, why did you call?”

“I understand Felicity invited you to the Queen Consolidated party tonight. I’d like to re-extend that invitation.”

His mouth falls open for a moment, no sound coming out until he’s able to struggle past the shock. “Oh, wow. You really don’t have to.”

“Consider it my thanks for your help with the investigation. I might have been a bit…harsh, earlier today. And Felicity does still need a plus one.” It’s all very slow, pained, and Barry can’t help but to grin. He doesn’t think Oliver Queen is the type often given over to issuing apologies.

“Thank you,” Barry says anyway, because the fact that Oliver’s even trying after he _lied_ is more than enough to be grateful for.

“I took the liberty of sending over something for you to wear this evening. I’m guessing you didn’t pack a suit,” the other man notes with a hint of wry humor. He should be happy.

Instead, his stomach drops. “Oh, well that’s- thanks, but I can’t—”

“Just wear the tux,” Oliver cuts across, sounding somewhat impatient now and he shuts up. “And…try not to be late.” Those are the other man’s parting words before hanging up and Barry has to wonder if he’s just gone and messed everything up between them again. He doesn’t have much time to worry about it, though, since there’s a knock at the door a couple minutes later.

“Mr. Allen? It’s John Diggle,” the familiar voice announces and he’s a little grateful for that whether it was intentional or otherwise. Though he has to wonder if Oliver’s personal driver is the one delivering said tux then is Oliver also nearby? He could be sitting in a car out front and Barry would never know.

He sighs and wanders back over to the door, though since he left his cane back on the bed it takes a minute of running his hand over the unfamiliar wall to find the knob. Then he’s pulling it open and stepping back. “Mr. Diggle, hi. Would you mind putting it on the bed?”

“Not at all,” the other man says, perfectly even. He gives even less away than Oliver in his tone, and it’s making it extremely difficult for Barry to read him. “Did you need me to send someone to pick you up?”

“Oh no, that’s fine. I’ll just call a cab. You guys really didn’t have to go through all this trouble, after…” He simply waves awkwardly and leaves it at that.

“You know, the more you try to convince him of that the more he’s just going to do it,” the man tells him, just the slightest crack in the stoic armor. “Mr. Queen tends to be a little stubborn that way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replies with another grin. “Thank you, really.”

Barry thinks the other man must give a short nod in reply out of habit because there’s a slight pause before he actually hears a, “Don’t mention it. I can show myself out.”

He waits till the door shuts again before making his own way back over to the bed with a sigh. “Ok, let’s try and figure this out,” he says to himself, reaching out and feeling the edges of a box. Removing the lid reveals a suit, tie, and even shoes and socks. Oliver’s thought of everything.

Except for the fact that this is a literal nightmare for Barry. He runs fingers over all the unfamiliar buttons, catches, and zips that haven’t been described to him with something like despair, knowing it’s going to take him more than one try to get this right.

The tie is wide. Too wide for his typical knot and Joe’s only ever taught him how to do the one. He contemplates taking a picture of the whole thing and sending it to Iris for help but that’s too complicated. And pathetic. What a perfect way to remind the girl he loves of that time when he was eleven years old and couldn’t dress himself!

Barry allows himself a minute to feel the familiar sting of tears at the corners of his useless eyes before furiously scrubbing at them. He’ll just have to make do. He can get ready for a party by himself, he’s a functioning adult human being and he’s smarter and better than this.

By the time he finally struggles through all of this and is in the cab, of course he’s late. He doesn’t need to be able to see to know that the cab driver’s probably shocked when he gives the destination of Queen Manor, but soon enough he’s paying and wandering up the front path, grateful that it’s stopped raining at the least because this gravel would be pretty slippery. And there’s fortunately still someone at the door to open it for guests so he’s shown in with little trouble to a foyer with plush carpeting that swallows nearly all sound of footsteps or his cane.

Barry’s glad he can hear the majority of voices are coming from what he guesses is more of a ballroom. There’s music playing, anyway. So he slowly makes his way in that direction, very conscious of the fact that this is going to be a party likely full of rich people, dancing may or may not be expected, and he has absolutely no idea what he even looks like.

This is all for Felicity, he tries to remind himself, even if that makes him all the more anxious, and he comes to a stop in the archway. How does he even find her without looking like an idiot?

There’s someone approaching him at a fast clip. He can hear the set of shoes on the floor and discerns that they’re male before the person snags his arm without any sort of greeting and starts dragging him to the side down a hall. “H-hey!”

“Come with me.” Oliver. He relaxes somewhat, lets himself be taken along even if he’s still a little tense with curiosity mounting. There’s something about how brusque Oliver is with him—not pitying, not picking on him—that is at once foreign and yet refreshing. Like he can’t be bothered with the fact that Barry’s blind. He’ll yell at him or invite him to a party or drag him around anyway

A door opens and he’s guided through, the other man entering behind him and shutting it again. Something tells him there’s not a ton of room. Barry reaches back and comes into contact with a sink. Bathroom, then.

“What are we doing here?”

There’s a pause, and he thinks Oliver must be struggling with how to put this delicately before just deciding to be blunt. “You’re a mess.”

Barry’s eyes squeeze shut and his head hangs in shame, cheeks burning. “I- I know. I’m just not—it’s a bit hard with unfamiliar clothes the first time. And this tie’s a different style than what I own. The knot’s all wrong, isn’t it?”

Rather than answer him, the older man simply says, “I’m sorry.” His voice is…heavy. Weighted. Like he really deeply feels that guilt.

“It’s not your fault.”

Almost stubbornly, Oliver insists, “Yes it is.” He steps in closer and then his hands are at Barry’s neck, pulling the tie out of its loose, misshapen knot and readjusting it to sit better under his collar. Then he starts redoing the knot.

It feels like the kind of moment where he should turn his head away, but it really wouldn’t do anything and they both know it, so he doesn’t bother.

“Can I ask…what does this,” he gestures up and down himself, “look like? I don’t even know the colors.” Barry puts a laugh into it hoping to make the question a bit lighter than it is.

He still feels a slight flinch in Oliver’s normally sure movements. “The suit’s black. Tie’s red. Do you…?”

Rather than answer that unfinished question he just nods. “That’s good. My dad always used to say I looked good in red.” He never does anymore. Like a lot of people who meet Barry, he’s stopped using words like look, see, or any sort of color. All it does is make his darkened world that much dimmer.

He feels a huff of breath over his face—they must be the same height, or nearly, he’s finally able to confirm—and feels a hand smooth down his chest. Smoothing the tie down, he realizes, fortunately before he’s able to do more than suck in a breath of his own. “Well, now you do. So let’s get you back out there.”

Barry’s smile is shakier than he’d like. But he just can’t figure Oliver out. One minute the man’s bearing down on him practically demanding a confession, the next he’s fixing him up in a bathroom to get him ready for a…date of sorts with his personal assistant. He wonders if this is really is just pity for the blind guy winning out or if it’s for Felicity herself that he’s extended this helpful hand.

But nevertheless he follows him back out to that main room, stands waiting patiently in the archway as he’s directed while Oliver goes to alert the woman of the hour. In time, there’s a pair of heeled shoes approaching him and his smile this time is thankfully full if nervous.

“Barry, hey.”

“Hey. Sorry I’m late,” he offers, takes a couple steps forward to meet her. His date. His first date, ever. God what does he even say? There’s no way for him to compliment her appearance and sound genuine, and to tell her she sounds bright and warm would just be…no.

There’s a change in the music, shifting to a slower tempo. Barry licks his lips, then folds up his cane and tucks it away. “About the dancing—I really can’t, I mean, I can’t promise anything. But I’ll hold your hands and…sway?”

He’s doing his best not to cringe in anticipation of a rejection of some kind, and almost feels his heart drop into his stomach when a soft laugh is the reply. But then an elbow brushes his free hand, a clear offer. “Sold.”

She’s _happy_ with him, somehow. Barry can’t help the flood of relief as they move further into the room before his hands are placed, one on her waist and one in one of her smaller ones. He spares a second to be glad this doesn’t seem to be a crowded party so they can be guaranteed a wide berth on the dance floor, then just lets Felicity take the lead.

“I’m really glad you came back,” she tells him.

“Me too.”

They skip out of the party early—not that it was much of one, because he can tell by the noise level that attendance was incredibly low—to get back to the lab and continue working. They’re both more comfortable there, anyway.

Of course then his phone is ringing and chiming out the name, “Captain Singh.” He winces, but takes the call, knowing it’s time to plead for his job.

“I have to be on the next train if I want to keep my job,” he tells Felicity with regret once he’s hung up, not that she probably couldn’t already guess. “Which I do. You can tell your _friend_ the sedative in the thief’s blood is ketamine,” he informs her, glad he was able to get that much before the summons home came in. A little thrill shoots through him at just the thought that he’s directly helped the Vigilante’s investigation and he can’t imagine what it’s like to be Felicity helping him fight crime every night.

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Felicity lets him know. “Thank you.”

Then they’re both talking over each other in their attempts to say goodbye. It’s amazing how in sync he’s gotten with Felicity Smoak. He knows her in so many ways, and yet barely in others. And so he finds himself paused in front of her again.

“This is gonna sound really weird, but could I…map your face?” He raises his hands, fingers splayed, in demonstration. “It’s how I remember people, sort of.” She’s yet to say anything in reply and so he ducks his head and pulls his hands back. “It’s really invasive, though, I know, so you don’t have to say yes. Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. You shouldn’t have to apologize.” Felicity’s voice sounds soft, sad, but warm with conviction. She takes both his hands in her own—small, soft, just the barest of calluses on the tips from so much typing—and lifts them back up, hovering just an inch shy of her cheeks. “Promise you won’t smudge my makeup?”

Barry smiles, nearly laughs. “Promise.” She’s let go, so he carefully touches down with his fingers and begins.

She really is soft, he can’t help but to think again. Small as well, or petite rather. That, he’d already been able to tell. With her hair pulled back in some way he’s free to brush over the high forehead, then down a longer nose.

“You didn’t wear your glasses,” he can’t help remarking aloud.

She gives something of a start, but doesn’t pull away. “How did you know I wear glasses?”

“Indentations here,” he rubs over the bridge of her nose again, then moves both hands to each of her temples just above ear-level, “and here, where the frames usually rest.”

“Indentations?” She echoes, sounding horrified as she brings her own hands up again to touch those places. “Are they _noticeable_?”

“No,” he hurries to assuage her fears before they can even start to grow. “No, I’ve just trained myself to- to look, I guess, for these kind of things. You’re fine—better than fine, actually. It’s just part of how I’ll remember you.” He decides it’s best to move on then, trailing soft fingers over lids that have obligingly shut. Barry imagines the eyes beneath them are typically wide and bright and _God_ does he dare ask the color? There’s something of a tremble to his touch as it skims over high, defined cheekbones, the dimples at the corners of her mouth when she smiles—like now—and lips that are full and plump and puckered. Oh.

“What color,” he starts, and has to swallow due to a mouth run dry, “what color is your hair?”

“Blonde,” she answers without hesitation, then cocks her head in a way that he thinks must be habit. “I dye it, though. Are you going to tell me you knew it was dyed?”

“No,” he chuckles, gives a small shake of his head. “I just…wanted to try to picture it. And your eyes?”

“Blue,” she supplies, breath ghosting over his palms as he continues to cradle her face in his hands. It’s the perfect moment. Barry knows, if he leans in just the slightest bit, she’d guide his lips to hers.

But his smile turns rueful at the thought. “You must be really beautiful,” he tells her. “You _are_ beautiful. I just…I’m sure there’s someone out there who could truly appreciate it.”

“Barry.” Felicity sounds like she wants to protest, but she lets his hands slide away from her and doesn’t say another word as he retrieves his cane and extends it to the floor.

“Goodbye, Felicity.”

“Goodbye, Barry.”

He hates himself for that farewell the second after he’s left Queen Consolidated’s lab. As if she needs any more reason to pity him he’d gone all melodramatic as Iris calls it, lamenting the one limitation that has stood between him and everything he’s ever wanted since he was eleven years old. Iris, who is somehow just as blind as Barry, when it comes to seeing how he feels about her anyway. Seeing him.

Felicity had seen him. And he’d thrown it all away. For her sake, because someone as bright and warm as Felicity Smoak deserves someone who isn’t damaged goods. It’s a bitter pill he’s come to swallow over the years that most people don’t want damaged goods in the first place.

Of course due to his brush with potential romance, he’s missed the last train of the night. He doesn’t much feel like wandering around in vain for a hotel—even if it would probably make a mugger’s week—and so drops down on one of the cold, hard wooden benches to wait.

He doesn’t get to wait long. There’s the sound of something flying through the air towards him but before he can do much more than start something hits his neck, sticking there. His hand reaches, but the movement is sluggish and that’s really the only warning he gets that he’s been drugged. After all, his vision’s already dark.

\---

As he comes to, he first notices a soreness in his neck. Next is the fact that he’s waking up from a sleep he doesn’t remember agreeing to. And lastly, he can already tell he has no idea where he is.

Barry sits up with a panicked jolt, breaths coming hard and fast as he reaches out for anything to help him _see_ —and meets two hands. Soft. Small. Calluses at the tips. He frees one of his own from that gentle grasp to touch a high cheekbone and glasses. There’s no dimple at the corner of her mouth, though.

“Barry, Barry, it’s ok,” Felicity is saying, letting him center himself with her. “You’re ok. I’m really sorry, but I need your help.” She’s pulling him up onto unsteady legs, dragging him to a steel table—an exam table. And there’s an occupant lying prone, he thinks not by choice. “Please save my friend.”

Her friend. The Vigilante.

His hands reach out. Leather and toned muscle, scars and bruises new and old taking up almost all of the exposed skin at the jacket’s open front. Shorter hair and scruff, a wider face, handsome and masculine. It’s unfamiliar, but he thinks—Barry goes for the Vigilante’s arm, strips off his glove.

“What are you doing?” He’s not surprised by Mr. Diggle’s voice, since it’d been clear there was someone standing on the other side of the table, guarding the unconscious body between them. It only helps convince him even more of what he’s trying to confirm.

The glove drops to the floor and he takes a hand, a hand he’d held once and wondered at the roughness, the strength, those unusual calluses—bowstring calluses, he realizes now.

“Oliver.”


End file.
